twenty-four
ANGELINE DIDN’T KNOW if she should be worried or impressed by Royston’s behaviour.
He’d been adamant about leaving the house despite the fact his face was gaunt, dark circles clouded his eyes, and coughing fits overwhelmed him whenever his temper rose.
“Why are we going to see Mr. Wright?” she asked as they rode in a carriage. “I thought you would go straight to Lady Redvers.”
“If the conversation with Wright goes as I hope, there will be no need for me to talk with Lady Redvers.” He straightened his jacket and watched out of the carriage window. “I didn’t tell you that Wright and Miss Taylor love each other. They meant to get married, but he doesn’t have the money to give a viscount’s daughter the type of life she’s used to. Your mother pays him money secretly for errands he does for her. He brings her pouches of herbs from the market. When he told me I thought it seemed too simple. Now I understand why. She asks him to be her courier to carry medicinal herbs that are likely illegal, so she won’t be seen dealing with smugglers.”
Angeline pressed two fingers to her temples. “I keep learning new, horrible things about my mother. I wonder how many more secrets she keeps from me.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t want to know. I don’t think Miss Taylor cares about Wright’s finances, but her parents would never allow her to marry a penniless, albeit famous pianist. Wright would like to move to Paris with the hope of earning more money. Artists receive better salaries in France. I’m sure he’s devastated by the news that his beloved has to marry someone else.”
“But how can he marry Miss Taylor now? He’s penniless.”
He grinned, regaining some of his colour. “He won’t be penniless for long.”
She put her hand over his and smiled. “I see.”
The carriage stopped in Bloomsbury, in front of a closed tailor shop.
Angeline tilted her head up. The windows of the upper floors above the shop showed broken shutters, and a few glass panes had been patched with newspapers. The front door was ajar, swinging back and forth on its hinges; it nearly came off them when Royston held it open for her.
He entered the entry hallway and went up the stairs on unsteady legs. She followed him, worried he might collapse.
Rotting wooden doors lined the hallway. Pieces of wallpaper flaked from the walls, and she could swear she saw a rat hurrying away.
He knocked on the door with a plaque reading, ‘Mr. Daniel Wright.’
“Wright? It’s me, Baron Wharton.”
The door was flung open before Royston could knock again, which was great because the door was so thin and tattered she doubted it would survive another knock.
Mr. Wright appeared on the threshold. “You!”
“We need to talk.” Royston brushed past him none too gently.
Angeline followed him inside. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Wright.”
The pianist lived in a room that was actually a glorified wardrobe. The single window was too small to let any sunlight in, and every time Angeline took a step, the floorboards creaked.
“How could you compromise my Georgiana?” Mr. Wright pointed a finger at Royston. “I told you we were in love. I thought you understood my struggle.”
Royston shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. I’m here to set the matter straight and?—”
Mr. Wright wasn’t listening because he tackled Royston as a rugby player would. Royston groaned and hit the wall with his back. The fact he didn’t react was a testament to his precarious condition.
“Mr. Wright, stop this instant.” Angeline grabbed the man’s arm before he hit Royston again and pulled him away. “Let him tell you what happened.”
The musician staggered back.
She stepped between Royston and him. “You must listen to what we have to say. We’re here to help you and Miss Taylor.”
“Mr. Wright shook a fist. “I love her. And she loves me dearly.”
“Great. Wonderful. Wish you all the best.” Wincing, Royston sat down on the only chair that looked solid. “Apologies, Angeline, but I need to sit.”
“Of course, darling.”
